Forever Young
by secretspark89
Summary: When one of Ziva's 'contacts' from ASIO comes to NCIS to take part in a joint investigation, Tony feels he's fighting for Ziva's affection, and his jealousy gets the better of him. Re-written; post Hereafter. Spoilers for Season 10 episodes. (Will continue soon, but on temporary HIATUS, for now)
1. are you gonna be my girl

Tony stole a quick glance at his watch before the elevator dinged announcing his arrival; 6:30.

_Perfect_, he thought. His timing was spot on; it was just early enough to steal a few extra minutes alone with his favorite ex-Mossad officer. His afternoons were consumed with cases, paperwork, and a few murderers thrown in for good measure; his mornings, however, were reserved for one very special Ziva David.

He was pretty proud of himself on this particular morning; he'd woken up early enough to stop at the local coffee shop to buy Ziva a cup of her favorite green tea. Her smile alone would make the next ten hours fly by.

His optimism fell as he made his way to the bullpen, evident she had yet to arrive. _Ziva_ had always been a morning person, with her infamous runs at ungodly hours, but a part of him liked to think she had picked up on the reason behind _his_ newly adopted work ethic. It bothered him to think Ziva may have been oblivious to his incentives, and it brought back the old, nagging feeling that their 'thing' was more one sided than Tony wanted to admit. Recently, they'd been perfectly in sync; perfectly _back_.

He'd barely set the tea on her desk when he heard footsteps behind him. Tony smiled to himself;

_See_, he thought. _She knows_; when he turned around, however, Tony wasn't looking into Ziva's sparkling, chocolate eyes, but rather those of an unknown, quite suave looking man.

Tony straightened and his chin tilted in silent curiosity.

He was roughly the same age and height as Tony; maybe a bit more muscular, not that Tony noticed. He was suddenly reminded of being thoroughly embarrassed on a Friday night not too long ago, when Abby started catcalling at a special showing of _The Thomas Crown Affair_. Abby thought it was funny; Tony and McGee did not. This man may not have looked anything like Pierce Brosnan, but he was what Abby would call _tall, dark and handsome_.

"Can I, help you?" Tony offered.

"I sure hope so," he replied, in a deep Australian accent. "I'm looking for an Agent Jethro Gibbs?"

"Ah," Tony was surprised by the accent, although he shouldn't have been. They'd been told someone from the AFP would be arriving sometime this week to initiate a joint investigation. They'd been pursuing Samuel B. Clarke without luck for the better part of the decade, and now that he was under investigation for the murder of two Petty Officers, collectively the two agencies would seek to bring him down. "Agent Gibbs isn't here just yet, but you're welcome to wait. You're with the AFP, right?" Tony extended his hand, quickly accepted in an easy handshake. "Tony DiNozzo," he introduced himself. "I'm on Gibbs' team."

"Nice to meet you," the man smiled. "Simon Frasier. But, no, I'm no longer with the Federal Police."

"No?"

"No. This case was mine a few years back, and when I moved on to ASIO, I kept tabs on it. This bastard's been able to evade arrest for seven years. The bodies keep piling up, but he's been one step ahead of us the whole damn time."

"ASIO?" Tony asked.

"Security Intelligence." He clarified. "I believe it is the equivalent to your FBI?"

"Oh, right."

"But I've heard some great things about NCIS; you guys have an impressive track record. Hopefully I can help you guys catch Clarke, and we can nail him to the wall."

Tony liked him already. Apparently the _Australian_ FBI knew of a little thing called manners. It seemed like Simon was willing to take the backseat on this one.

Now all he had to do was say '_mate_,' and they would be best friends.

Simon dropped the box he'd been carrying to his feet and gestured to Ziva's chair. "Do you mind?"

"Do I mind?" Tony laughed."No…Ziva on the other hand, she'll definitely mind."

"Your partner?" Simon asked, interest obviously peaked. He looked over the few personal touches on her desktop: hand cream, a pencil holder that housed both an American and an Israeli flag, and one of those huge desk calendars, each day filled in with scribbling Tony was sure only Ziva could read.

He was almost certain that if he were to swivel her computer monitor around, it still adorned an old black and white, somewhat unflattering, photo of Tony from his school days. Luckily, unless intensely scrutinized, nothing would give away his true identity.

"Yeah. She'll be in soon, so I suggest you sit anywhere but there." He thought for a moment. Tony had never been able to understand her call for personal space when she held no regard for his own. The phrase '_inappropriate touching'_ came to mind. _Probably more of a territorial thing than a privacy thing,_ he justified.

However, Ziva had been allowing far more intimate moments, without cause or reason, as of recent. And Tony didn't dare question it. Yes, he had undeniably felt the eyes from other agents upon them, but he chalked it up to confusion, or jealousy. Who wouldn't want to be close enough to Ziva to smell the subtle hint of apple from her shampoo? Or the tangy citrus scent that lingered on her clothes; he had yet to determine if it was her detergent or fabric softener, but did it even matter? All Tony knew was that whether they were elevator bound, or he was perched behind her desk reading over her shoulder, Ziva smelled good enough to devour.

"Yeah, even sitting at Gibbs' desk might be safer," he added.

"This Ziva, she's a pistol, huh?"

"Yeah." Tony couldn't help but smile at a reference to Ziva as _a pistol._ Firstly, it was the understatement of a lifetime; secondly, if she'd been anywhere within a mile of here, poor Simon would have to work this case minus an arm; or an eye. "You'll just have to see for yourself."

Tony booted up his computer and took a seat. "Your safest bet would be to sit there," he told Simon, pointing towards McGee's corner. "Probie won't mind, and even if he did, he wouldn't say anything."

"Alright then. Thanks, mate." Simon kicked the box towards Tim's desk.

Tony stifled his laugh. _Mental note, he said __mate__. I win. McGee buys lunch._

"Actually," Simon interrupted his thoughts, "is there a bathroom somewhere close by?"

"Yeah, down that hall, second door on the left." Simon nodded in thanks as he exited the bullpen.

* * *

It was only a few minutes before Tony heard Ziva's humming as she stepped out of the elevator. He chose not to look up at first; he didn't want to look _too_ eager.

"Oh!" she exclaimed.

When he finally stole a glance, she was faced away from him. She was wearing her lime-green coat, and her hair was down.

He'd always liked it when she left her hair loose. When she'd first joined the team, her hair was wild, like her personality. It was fascinating really; he'd never really cared either way how other women had worn their hair; but ever since their first night undercover, when he had been allowed to tangle his fingers in her dark curly tresses, pulling it away from her face as he kissed her, under false pretenses of course, but no less passionately, he'd always preferred it let down. These days, he'd noticed, she was wearing it straight. He liked it. Somehow it softened the already pretty features of her face.

Straight or curly, it didn't matter. It was still all too tempting to touch. _She_ was all too tempting to touch.

"What's wrong?" he asked, obviously not too worried given he was donning the trademark DiNozzo smirk.

"Umm, no. Nothing is _wrong_, Tony. Just a coincidence, I suppose."

"Huh?"

She turned to face him, cheeks flushed. Had she been running? No; in her hands she held two to-go cups, one of coffee, the other tea. "This one was supposed to be for you," she said feigning a hurt expression as she lifted the cup in her right hand. "But I see you have already had your morning coffee, yes?" she asked referring to the near empty cup on the corner of his desk.

"That's why you were late?" he beamed.

"I was not late," she defended. She placed the cup of tea on his desk, still holding his coffee hostage, and grabbed his left wrist with her free hand. "See," she said, "it is only ten of seven. I'm still early."

"Okay, fine. You win," he offered. He made no sudden movements, afraid she might pull away. She was crooked over his desk, absentmindedly giving him a free peak down the front of her shirt. Tony didn't even notice. His eyes were glued to her face, _her eyes_, willing her to look back at him. When she finally met his gaze, he couldn't hide his smile. "Can I have my coffee now?"

To his dismay, she broke their touch to pick up his cup from earlier. She shook it, "But you still have some here." Tony pouted dramatically, jutting out his bottom lip. "I am sure McGee could use a cup too," she teased.

"I'd rather see you throw it away." He took the near empty cup from her hand, allowing his fingers to brush hers momentarily, and tossed it in the trash. "Now I'm coffee-less," he stated proudly. He held out his hands. "Come on!"

Ziva rolled her eyes; how could she say no to him? Instead of handing it to him directly, she merely placed it on the desk in front of him, slightly bent over again. "Thank you for thinking of me, Tony." Her voice was low and sultry. It was just what Tony needed to hear to rationalize he'd been worried for nothing.

"No problem. And, hey! Right back at ya." He winked at her once she'd retreated back to her desk, now in full flirtation mode.

"What is that?" she asked, referring to the box in front of McGee's desk.

He shrugged. "I'm sure we'll find out soon enough, Zee-vah." Her eyes quickly darted back to Tony, narrowing. She'd never tell him, but she liked it when he dragged out the syllables of her name; he'd never let her know, but he knew.

She was still glaring at Tony when her backpack fell from where she'd placed it at the edge of her desk, spilling its contents to the floor. Her attempt to catch it was futile. She looked back up at Tony, who threw his hands in the air, "Hey, I did the guy thing already today, and you had to go and show me up. This one's on you."

She quickly scooped up her belongings and was haphazardly throwing them back in her bag when she felt his presence behind her. "Tony, I have already picked everything up. What help are you going to be to me now?" she laughed. There was no doubt in her mind he had refused to help her just so he could watch her as she bent over to retrieve her things. And she had let him.

"Good Morning, gorgeous." She froze. That was not Tony. The accent, she knew it. His smell, it was more than familiar. She turned slowly leaving her hair brush and a few granola bars left strewn across her desk.

"Simon?" She was cornered. Her backside was pressed up against her desk and he was standing within arms width. She could see Tony watching them out of her periphery, mouth slightly open, confused. Ziva could hear her own heart beating in her chest. She was not easily unnerved, but the last time she had been this on edge, with the exception of her time spent in Somalia, had been _long_ ago.

"I think you dropped this, Love." Simon handed her the bottle of water that had rolled out of her line of vision. "That's it?" he asked after a few moments of awkward silence. "No '_how've you been_'? How about '_I missed you Simon'_?"

All Ziva could do was stand there, chewing her lip, frozen.

_Damn_, Tony thought. _I really liked him._


	2. screaming infidelities

There were plenty of reasons she had blocked him out; too many reasons she had never spoke of him. Nevertheless, Simon Frasier was here, at NCIS, and he was going to ruin everything.

Three minutes of silence felt like forever to Ziva. How had she let this happen? When Gibbs had asked her to get in touch with one of her contacts at the AFP, and she'd been so careful; but Simon had, how did Tony say it? 'friends in tall places'?

She hated him, or at least she wanted to; and Ziva had been sure to tell him, on more than one occasion. In true Simon fashion, he'd never taken offense, alleging there was a thin line between love and hate. They would fight, feverishly, throwing everything from insults, to punches, to dishes, and it always led to other passionate, rather sinful activities.

But that was before; before she'd cut ties with Mossad, before NCIS, before Tony…

_Tony…_

Yes, she knew he was staring, but she refused to look at him. He'd be able to tell, he could _always_ tell. He'd once said it was because of her eyes, that they just wouldn't shut up; she could say the same for him. So no, she wouldn't look Tony's way, not yet.

They were finally back on track, finally in this new level of comfort between the two, a sense of security, of _contentment_, that was entirely new to Ziva. She hadn't quite figured out why, or what exactly it meant, but she liked it.

According to McGee, she was the _zing_ to his _pah, _whatever that meant. Sometimes Ziva swore people made up words just to confuse her; wasn't it supposed to be _yin_ to _yang_?

Ying and Yang_, complementary forces interacting to form a whole greater than either separate part_.

Yes, Tony complemented her, just as she him. And there were plenty of instances, far too many moments, that ran through her mind every day at the most inconvenient times that supported said theory.

That they were made for each other. Like now.

_Their day trapped in the elevator._

_When he'd brought her gum and magazines for the plane ride back to Israel_, an obvious poorly disguised attempt to check on her one last time before she left.

_He was always so worried about her._

_His mission to Somalia. For her._

_Their evening with Vance's kids, that was 'not awful' as Tony had so aptly put it._

_And even though it had been years ago, there was Paris. _

As of recent, they'd made some not-so-silent pact to talk about things, _the things that mattered_. But neither of them had dared bring up Paris.

Not yet, anyways.

With only one bed, Tony had offered to take the sofa, but she refused to let him play the martyr; they ended the night on their respective sides, facing opposite walls. By morning, they had gravitated towards the center of the bed, _towards each other_. Perfectly nestled behind her, Tony had woken first, but was unwilling to move; once Ziva came to, she may not have been aware of his consciousness, but his proximity did not go unnoticed. His right arm was thrown across Ziva's pillow, her head resting on his bicep, his left arm slung around her waist, fingers tangled in the sheets. Only after several minutes did she dare move. When she had finished showering, Tony had already gotten up, seemingly unaffected.

By the time they had boarded the plane, however, Tony had made more than a few suggestive comments regarding their night together, hinting he had been aware of more than he had originally led her to believe; _of course he did_.

* * *

But Ziva was not in Paris. Instead, she was resigned to being _here_, wide eyed, mouth slightly open in shock, gaping at him. No, not at Tony.

_Simon_.

He was standing too close, with his ridiculous grin and big blue eyes, and it made her uncomfortable; and in that moment, Ziva decided she hated the color blue.

_Seven years? Had it really only been seven years?_

It seemed like a lifetime ago, maybe longer.

She noticed his lips were moving, but she couldn't make out the words; her mind was racing, overwhelmed by the mere sight of him. Simon was older than Ziva, by more than a few years, but he certainly didn't look it. He was still perfectly tan, with short, but stylish, jet black hair and not a worry line in sight to mar his 'pretty boy' features.

_What a shock. He'd never had a care in the world._

And then there was his smile. At the moment he looked like an idiot, grinning cockily; he'd caught her off guard, showing up without warning, and was obviously pleased with her reaction: the inability to form coherent words. But Ziva knew the other smile, _the_ Simon smile; the smile that made girls trust him, even when they knew they shouldn't. Simon Frasier was a charismatic man, and he knew it. He was not unlike Tony in that way, but as of recent it seemed _Tony_ was only interested in capturing _Ziva's_ attention. She distractedly smiled at the thought.

"So you _are_ happy to see me?" he drawled. She'd almost forgotten about the accent. _Damn_.

"What are _you_ doing _here_?" she asked, hoping he understood the inflection. Ziva crossed her arms looking up at him expectantly, aiming to look as annoyed as possible.

"Ouch," he huffed. He placed both hands over his heart. "She's mean," he teased, turning to Tony, who was now standing, watching their exchange intently. He could only muster up a look of exasperation, desperately trying to hide his utter confusion, and disappointment. Today was definitely not going the way he'd hoped.

"Simon!" She waved her hand in the air, grabbing his attention. "What are you doing here?" He merely chuckled in response. "Please do not make me ask again. I _will_ hurt you," she threatened. Ziva knew she couldn't intimidate him, but sometimes force was the only way to get through to men, Simon in particular.

"Ok, ok." He took a step back, making light of her warning. "So I guess a hug is out of the question then, _Love_?" He was antagonizing her, and she knew it. She couldn't count the number of times she'd told him not to refer to her as his '_Love_', a nickname he'd reserved just for her many years ago; or at least he claimed he'd only used it for her. Ziva's eyes bore down on him. "Alright then," he sighed. "More business than pleasure, really. I'm here with ASIO. You know, the Clarke case?" It pleased him to see her relax at his words. "You called, and I came running, Babe."

"I did not call _you_," Ziva snapped. "I called Thomas."

_Who the hell was Thomas?_

"And the last time I checked," she continued, "the two of you were not speaking. Something to do with you and _his wife_." She tipped her head to the side and pursed her lips in distaste. If he was going to tease her, Ziva had no problem returning fire.

"Hey! In my defense, they were separated at the time."

"Separated how?" she probed. "Do you mean legally, or that they were simply not in the same room?" She leaned back to rest her weight on her desk. "Because there _is_ a difference you know."

"Ha, ha, ha," Simon snickered. "This hostility, Ziva…..it's not nice." He started to close in on her again.

Tony's jaw set and his eyes narrowed in response. _Who the hell was this guy?_

"You're going to give poor Tony the wrong impression of me."

"What?" she questioned, nose crinkled, and her voice an octave higher than usual. Her eyes shifted from Tony to Simon, and finally back to Tony. "You two know each other?"

The question had obviously been directed toward him, but Tony was merely left fuming when outspoken. "Oh yeah," Simon cooed. "We go way back."

He was _more than tired_ of being stuck on the sidelines though; "Oh yeah," he called, catching Ziva's attention as he walked out from behind his desk. "We go way back, all the way back to this morning."

"It is still morning, Tony," she smirked.

_Hmmm_, at least she still knew he was there. Still, Tony ignored the comment, choosing to focus on Simon. Tony put a hand on his shoulder, and it was anything but friendly. "Funny thing though," he said, facing his new _mate_, "never mentioned he knew you, Zee-Vah."

"You never asked." Simon was scowling.

"I never asked," Tony repeated spitefully, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "I guess that's my bad." He found it more than difficult keeping things light while trying to get a read on Ziva, especially when she wouldn't look him straight in the eye.

"Hey guys, what's going on?"

Simon and Ziva both turned to see McGee standing at the head of the bullpen, backpack slung over one shoulder, and looking rather chipper.

"Nothing, McTardy," Tony said, his eyes still fixed on Ziva. "What part of _'work starts at seven' _don't you understand?"

"What rule is that?"

"Rule number 6," he lied.

"No it's not."

Tony's hand dropped back to his side, hearing Gibbs' voice from behind. "Yeah, Boss. Actually I've been meaning to ask you…"

"No you weren't."

"I wasn't?" Uh-oh, '_Gibbs Stare_'. "Right," Tony agreed. "I wasn't."

Gibbs' brow furrowed in confusion. "Oh, right," Tony added. "This is our new friend Simon Frasier, from ASIO. It's the Australian…"

"I know what it is, DiNozzo." He turned to Simon, eyeing Simon suspiciously. "I was under the impression the AFP wanted this case."

"They probably do," Simon said matter-of-factly. He cleared his throat seeing the_unimpressed_ look on Gibbs' face. "We've flagged him as a threat to our nation's security. We're a small country, you know. We try to keep as many people alive as we can."

"So do we," Gibbs called over his shoulder as he turned to leave. "McGee, you're with me, MTAC. You three," he yelled from the stairs, taking them two at a time, "Gear up. They found a third dead Petty Officer, same MO."

"On it Boss."

"Yes, Gibbs."

"Gear up?" Simon asked.

"Just get your things, Simon. We are going to the scene." She turned to Tony just in time to catch the keys.

"Why don't you gas up the truck, _Zee-Vah_?"

"You will get Ducky?"

"I always do," he countered. Neither of them was willing to break eye contact as they walked toward the elevator, Simon hastily on their heels.

_Oh, this was bad. He was letting her drive._


	3. speeding cars

The elevator ride to the ground floor lasted no longer than sixty seconds, but it had been the most awkward minute of his life; _okay, maybe not the most awkward_, but it was easily in the top five. Tony had some sort of skill when it came to getting caught in uncomfortable situations. When the elevator doors opened, though, he quickly realized the tables had turned.

Simon had been the last to enter the elevator, so naturally he was standing closest to the threshold. When the doors opened, Ziva broke left heading towards the garage, and Tony went right to find Ducky and Palmer in Autopsy. Sixty seconds of silence were apparently as unproductive as they were uncomfortable, for Simon, and Tony smirked watching his expression in a glass door; he looked like he was in no-man's-land, not knowing which agent to follow. After a few moments he'd decided to trail Ziva.

Before meeting Ziva, Tony had never appreciated the art of silence; he learned quickly however, with her, words were irrelevant. It had always been a significant facet of their relationship, but especially now, since her return from Israel, Tony found the moments that held meaning didn't necessarily involve conversation, and when they did, it involved few words;

Just because words went unspoken didn't mean they weren't understood.

"_I know_."

Plus, McGee had always been one of those '_wrong place, wrong time'_ people, and watching him squirm in discomfort was more than amusing. Pretty soon the agent would own stock in Nutter Butters, by default.

It'd taken less than a minute to update Ducky and Palmer on the third body; normally Tony deliberately took his time amusing Ducky and the Autopsy Gremlin in listening to their ramblings, knowing Ziva would make him help prep the truck, but he wasn't sure how long he wanted her alone with Simon.

Tony still had no idea who the hell _he_ was.

When he turned the corner into the garage, Ziva was nowhere in sight; Simon, however, was leisurely leaning against the truck's back door panels.

"Where is she?" Tony asked.

Simon turned away from him, yelling in response, although Tony was only a few feet away. "Oh, you mean Ziva?" he shouted, banging on the back door with a heavy fist. "She locked me out!"

"Out of the car?" Tony asked. When he heard Ziva's laughter, he stifled a smile. He started towards her, recognizing the invitation as she unrolled her window.

"He said he would rather walk than let me drive," she smiled, gesturing to the passenger seat. "Get in."

Once inside, Tony begrudgingly unlocked the back doors and watched Simon climb in. "There's no seat belt back there," he called. "Well, there's really no seat, but Probie sits on the crate." Ziva's driving horrified him, on a good day, so it'd be a cold day in hell that Tony would be caught without a seat belt. He almost felt bad for Simon. _Almost_. "Just hold on."

Ziva had swept her hair back in a low ponytail, as per procedure at a crime scene, and Tony wasn't the only one to notice.

There was a chain–linked grate blocking off the front seats from the back, leaving just enough room for Simon to bend perfectly between Tony and Ziva.

"_Ma Cherie_," he fussed, twirling a few strands between his fingers, "I liked it the other way."

She looked at him disdainfully, shooing his hand away from her face before smiling sweetly.

_Wait, what?_

Tony was staring straight ahead, all too purposefully, but he hadn't missed the way she'd looked at Simon.

_Was that all he had to do? Say he liked it when she wore it down?_

He scoffed. He wasn't proud of it, but Tony felt like a five year old, and Ziva was the one toy he was _unwilling_ to share. Ziva shifted her gaze hearing his sigh.

She had a distinct feeling of déjà vu: Tony at her side, and a certain _author _named McGee, apologizing profusely as Ziva started the car, claiming Tommy and Lisa were fictional characters. "_If you don't believe me_," he pleaded, "_read the disclaimer in the front of the book_."

Ziva smiled at Simon again and pounded on the gas. Fifteen minutes later, they'd arrived at the scene, and her face was still shining with laughter.

* * *

When Gibbs' said 'same MO', he'd meant it. Petty Officer Sara Kent had been shot, execution style, and like the previous two, her body had been dumped; this time in Rock Creek Park.

Clues were scarce, not that Tony was giving the scene as much attention as it deserved. In fact, the only agent tending to the scene with any diligence was Ziva. She had interviewed the hysterical co-ed who'd found the body, and sent two sets of tire tracks back to Abby for identification before either of the men had come up with anything concrete. Simon seemed content in observing Ziva, which in turn left Tony's attention on Simon.

Watching Ziva was usually something Tony enjoyed, but today, seeing the level of ease between the two left an uncomfortable tightness in his chest.

After their last mission, a rather fun game of cat-and-mouse with the second biggest cyber terrorist, Tony thought them nothing short of the perfect pair. She was the Gwen Stacy to his Spider-Man, except Ziva kicked more ass and looked better in a skirt.

But now there were three.

Ziva was hunched over, taking snapshots of the body's position before Ducky could bring it back to Autopsy, when she felt something, someone, bump her from behind, but she chose to ignore it. "I think," Simon said, enjoying the view, "that you've gotten enough pictures. Let the good doctor be on his way." He nudged her again with his knee. "And you can take as many pictures of me as you'd like," he smiled.

Ziva stood with a jolt, using her hands to push herself up steadily; she had every intention of telling him off, but he was giving her that look.

_Damn_.

She opened her mouth to say something, but instead, Ziva took him up on his offer, snapping a photo, intentionally using the flash and temporarily rendering Simon blind. She smiled watching him go cross-eyed, taking the opportunity to jut him unsympathetically in the side with her elbow.

Ducky had been able to stifle his laughter, but the wind had picked up, and the chill was seeping through his windbreaker. "Ziva my dear, have you finished with the body? I'm certain Mr. Palmer is anxious to…-" He glanced over to Jimmy, sitting on a park bench swinging his legs idly. "Well, I'm sure he's eager to get back," he laughed.

"Of course, Ducky," she answered, still smiling. "I was just trying to get every angle. Gibbs will not be happy he was unable to meet us here. He prefers to see things for himself."

"Indeed," and with a wink, Ducky was gone to retrieve the gurney. _And his gloves_.

Tony grimaced as his gaze followed the pair walking in stride back towards the truck. He'd seen how quickly Ziva's annoyed reaction to Simon had quickly melted into playful banter, and it only made him more determined to get Ziva alone once they'd retreated back to NCIS. He had questions, and she had the answers.

* * *

13:00. _Lunchtime_.

They'd gotten back to headquarters a little over three hours ago, and Tony's attempts to corner Ziva had proven fruitless, although he'd been able to catch her eye on more than a few occasions. He'd decided he would follow her into the womens' room if necessary, _it was kind of their thing_, but she went at the most inopportune time, and Tony was stuck on the phone ordering food for what felt like a small army.

Or maybe she'd waited on purpose; maybe it had been timed perfectly.

Ziva had been gone for almost fifteen minutes, and even Gibbs started to glance around, curious.

_Where the hell was she?_

Before Tony could get up to look for her she rounded the corner into the bullpen.

"McGee," she called, taking her seat, "Abby has sent you an email. She identified the two sets of tire tracks down to the make, model and year." The announcement seemed to satisfy Gibbs' inquiry of her whereabouts, and he stood to join Tim behind the computer screen.

"It's the same car," Gibbs' announced. "'09 Ford Explorer."

"But the tracks were going in opposite directions at the scene, Gibbs." Ziva sifted through her photos before standing and transferring her screen up on the plasma. "See," she defended, "one goes north, the other south. And there is no evidence of a turnaround." She held the remote, going through each photo, letting her weight rest on the edge of Tony's desk.

Tony watched as she shifted uncomfortably, scrutinizing her own pictures, and he stood to get a better look at the plasma screen. Positioning himself right next to her, arms crossed, he looked on with her. "Could be two of the same car, Boss," he offered. "A really bad attempt to confuse us."

"Or a really good attempt to hide where they were going, DiNozzo." Gibb's motioned to Ziva, "Go back a few." She flicked the remote fervently, but nothing happened.

"Ummm, I think it is on the fringe," she said, shaking it angrily.

"Fritz," Simon corrected. "Fringe was a show, Ziva. Pretty good, like X-Files." And suddenly he had four pair of eyes on him. "What?"

Tim was the first to look away. "It's okay, boss, I can do it remotely from here."

Gibbs eyes when back to the screen. "Three or four back, McGee. The ones where the tracks hit the road."

Ziva was still mulling over her mistake. "Fritz," she repeated. "On the fritz."

Simon rolled his eyes and glanced at Tony, "She does that sometimes, you know? Mixes things up."

"Really?" he asked, looking at Ziva. "I never noticed." She elbowed him in the ribs, not bothering to hide her smile.

"Right here," Gibbs pointed to the picture, "They took the back entrance in, and out. Four sets of tracks, from two cars, coming from, and exiting in opposite directions."

"So we have nothing," Ziva stated.

"Wrong, my little Probette," Tony said in almost a whisper, cocking his head to the side. "We have lunch." Ziva watched as his face lit up in front of her eyes. "McGee, pay the man."

"But McGee paid yesterday, Tony."

"Probie and I had a little bet, and he lost. So now he pays."

Tim paid the bill in exchange for the two bags of food.

"After lunch," Gibbs called as he strode out of the bullpen, "look in the old case files and find something that links them together. I want _something_ by the end of the day."

"Hope he doesn't mean today," Tony mumbled, knowing full well that he had.

The four had settled around Ziva's desk, eating Chinese Take-out straight out of the containers. Tony liked their little routine. McGee chose his Moo Goo Gai Pan, while Tony stuck with his Shrimp Lo Mein, and Ziva had the usual, but entrée-less, order of Orange Chicken and Spring Rolls. A side of spring rolls included two, so Tony always snagged one for himself, and consequentially didn't complain when Ziva used her chop sticks to steal some of Tony's shrimp. Right out of the carton.

But today, they weren't seated next to each other, rather across from each other, Ziva's desk between them. Not to mention a fourth person; a fourth person who ordered the Seafood Chow Foon.

_Who the hell orders Squid?_

"Should I throw your spring roll at you, Tony?" Ziva asked, snapping him out of his daze. She was holding it out to him between her chopsticks, and he accepted it with a smile.

"Shrimp?" he offered, tipping the carton her way, but to his disappointment she just shook her head _'no'_.

"Mmmm," Simon attempted words through his food, but opted to wait it out. He picked up Ziva's set of keys. "Where did you get this?" he asked, stroking the mini Eiffel Tower.

"Oh," she said nervously, retrieving her keys and placing them in her top drawer. "Tony bought it for me from the airport in Paris."

Simon's glance shifted to Tony who was glowing; he'd never expected her to actually use it. It was only a cheap little silver plated souvenir, because he knew Ziva hated it when people spent money on her; but regardless, Tony had rather enjoyed their trip, for reasons only obvious to him, _and possibly her_, and she was getting something whether she liked it or not_._

_Apparently she did_.

"We were only there for a day_. Work_," she added quickly before focusing on her food.

"That's too bad," Simon acknowledged, scooting his chair closer to her. "Cause I know how much you _love_ Paris."

Tony's eyes shot up at his tone. It was full of recognition, and it held a double entendre that made Tony cringe. Paris was supposed to be _theirs_. "Wait," he called, unsettled by the jealousy in his own voice. "You two have been to Paris?"


	4. dance, dance

"Wait," Tony called, unsettled by the jealousy in his own voice. "You two have been to Paris?"

Damn. Paris was theirs; Tony and Ziva's.

_Okay, so maybe it was Gibbs and Jenny's, but they'd leased it out, for a night. _

Granted, almost five years ago, when they spoke of long nights and inevitability, maybe a night in Paris, with Ziva, would have been slightly more eventful; but now; now, Tony had no complaints of the memory; the memory of waking next to a completely clothed Ziva David; in fact, it was quite nice. Undercover she had worn a little black piece, lace and all, but to be perfectly honest, Tony preferred the boxer shorts and long sleeved tee. It was just very _Ziva_; and it left just enough _uncovered_ to prove yet again that for an assassin, she had ridiculously soft skin.

_Not that he had intentionally let his leg graze hers, it just happened. _

_Just like she hadn't tickled the hollow of his elbow with her nose, __on purpose__._

Ziva smiled softly at his expression. "No. We've never been to Paris, together."

"Yet, anyways." The remark earned Simon a rather unpleasant sideways glance.

Two hours and four empty take-out containers later, they'd made it through too many cold case files to have come up with _nothing_.

_So much for this huge revelation Gibbs was expecting._

Ziva found herself extremely frustrated. She knew Gibbs could stroll into the bullpen any minute, and their lack of progress would not be appreciated.

And Simon wasn't making matters any better. He'd decided to set up camp at her desk rather than use the spare desk next to McGee. Ziva couldn't blame him, though; she'd been put there on her first day as part of the team, and she was sure it had been some form of punishment, feeling exiled. So when Simon rolled a chair over to her desk, she didn't object. And when he reached around her to use the phone, she merely shot him a warning glare.

Simon had, at one time, been a _welcomed_ intrusion into her personal space, and truthfully, he had no reason to believe anything had changed. As far as she knew, he was oblivious to the events of the past few years, and although Ziva would never feel unsafe around him, she was definitely uncomfortable. She'd given him an inch, when she knew he wanted a mile, maybe two.

_And her knee was still sore._

_And she had to see Abby._

"This is getting us nowhere," she stated, stuffing a handful of useless case notes back into a worn-out manila envelope. "I'm going to see if Abby has anything for us."

"If she had anything, she'd call," Tim said, not bothering to look up from his computer screen.

"Yes, but she has been down there all day," Ziva said pointing to the floor, "and we have been here all day. And Gibbs has been in MTAC. So has anyone gotten her Caf-Pow?" She accepted his silence as an agreement and Ziva grabbed her coat off the back of her chair, pausing momentarily noticing Simon mimic her actions. "Where are you going?"

"Wouldn't want you to get lonely," he winked.

"On my way to the corner?" She proceeded to straighten out her collar and grabbed her wallet. "I am sure I'll survive." And she would have left it at that, but she saw Tony to her right, opening his top drawer, possibly to get his phone, or money, to sneak out behind her. "It is bad enough we have gotten nowhere," she said, directing it towards no one in particuar, but loud enough for each to hear, "but if Gibbs comes down, _and_ we have nothing, _and_ half of us are wandering about, I'm sure he will not be happy."

"Agreed," Tony joined in, shaking his head. "But maybe you should get McSleepy here one of those energy drinks. He's about five minutes away from turning his keyboard into a pillow, and I'm all out of superglue."

"McGee?" she asked.

"Coffee would be great, Ziva. Thanks."

"Tony?" He twitched his nose considering his options, and his scrunched up face made Ziva smile. "Do not think too hard," she teased. "I would not want you to hurt yourself."

"Ha, ha. Coffee is fine_, Zee-Vah_." And she smiled again; that _Ziva smile_ where she touched her teeth with her tongue, and he _just had_ to keep looking at her.

But after a moment, Ziva broke the gaze and turned to Simon. "Coffee?"

"Would I like it?"

"If it is good enough for Gibbs, it is good enough for you."

"You drink it?"

"Have you met me?" she asked sarcastically. "They have a good strong Breakfast Tea there. I do not drink _that crap_." She waited for Gibbs to round the corner and ask, '_What crap, David_', but it never came.

_Thank God_.

"Ahh yes." Simon leant back in his chair stretching out his legs. He spoke softly, words not meant to be heard by all, but he had, what some would call, an Irish whisper. "Same old Ziva. She likes her tea as strong as her men?"

_Oh, Tony heard it_. He was ten feet away, not deaf; but Ziva didn't miss a beat, her head tilted to the side, eyes narrowed in clear defiance. "And that, automatically throws you out of the running, yes?" But she didn't wait for an answer; turning around quickly, she started towards the elevator, leaving the three men, two of which were shamelessly watching her leave, behind.

* * *

One minute. Two minutes. Seven minutes. She'd been gone for ten minutes and an uneasy silence had ensued. Uneasy for Tony at least.

"So," he asked, clearing his throat. "How long have you known Ziva?"

_Smooth, Tony. Very smooth._

Simon looked up from his file. "About….about eleven years I guess."

"Wow." Tony looked over to McGee, also listening fixedly. "Eleven years," he repeated.

"Yep. And Ziva's been here for, what?" Simon counted on his fingers. "Seven….seven and a half years, right?"

"Yeah," McGee absentmindedly answered. "Huh. Seems longer than that."

"Actually," Tony said, recalling Simon's attention, "that's pretty spot on. Seven and a half years."

"And how long have you two," he waved his hand between the two desks, "been together?"

"We aren't together," he answered quickly. Maybe a bit too quickly.

_Nice, DiNozzo._

But it didn't seem like anyone noticed.

"_I_ _know_ _that_. I was just asking how long you've been partners."

Tim laughed quietly. "He's only been here for a few hours, and he can already tell she can't stand you."

Tony opened his mouth to rebut, but he was cut off by the shrill of McGee's phone.

"Hey boss…no. No headway, but we're working on…- okay. Be right up." Tim stood to find the agents watching him curiously, having listened to a one-sided conversation. "MTAC," he confirmed as he briskly walked past them.

"Oh, Little Timmy," Tony smiled through gritted teeth. "Sometimes I think about shipping him off somewhere warm, like India, so he can play with all the other little overheated computer chips." He did a double take of Ziva's desk, forgetting she'd left.

"_Remember to reuse that one in front of Ziva. She'll like it," _he mused.

"I didn't mean anything by what I said," Simon added offhandedly, interrupting Tony's inner monologue.

"Huh?"

"Believe me, if Ziva didn't like you, she'd let you know."

"I believe it."

"I only meant you're a little old for her is all," Simon shrugged. There was no malice in his voice, no evidence he was intentionally being nasty, but the comment bothered Tony. He'd never thought about age as a factor between the two of them.

"I'm not old," he laughed, attempting to hide his bitterness; and if Tony hadn't been looking straight ahead, it would have worked. But his eyes were hard, challenging, and as usual, they betrayed him.

"_That's_ not what I said," Simon drawled. "I just said you were a bit old _for her_."

"Can't be much older than you," he said coolly, throwing another folder back in the box. Tony's tone and cavalier attitude earned him a quizzical look; Simon was gauging what he'd implied, wondering just how much he knew.

"43?"

"40," Tony corrected. "You?"

"37," Simon admitted after a slight pause. "Last month. And _how long_ have you two been partners?"

They'd both deserted their case files, held by conversation. Conversation, Tony knew, Ziva wouldn't approve of.

"You know, seven_ and a half years_. Since she got here."

"And you're still alive?" Simon laughed. "If she hasn't killed you, and you can put up with her '_crazy_', I'd say it's a pretty good setup."

Tony silently agreed and glanced at the clock, wondering why it'd taken Ziva almost a half hour to get coffee. He pulled out his phone and tapped in the familiar ten digit phone number; it was ten times faster than scrolling through all his contacts to get to Z. It rang twice before she answered.

"Yes Tony?"

"What are you grinding the coffee beans yourself, Ziva?" he teased. "You know they're supposed to do that for you. It's kinda what you're paying for."

"No, Tony. For your information, I am already back. I'm down in Abby's Lab."

In the background, Tony could hear his favorite forensic scientist typing feverishly away. "Does she have anything?" he asked.

"Only the Caf-Pow Ziva bought me," Abby called, disclosing Tony was on speaker phone. "_You _forgot about me."

"I would never!" he defended. "I was the one who told Ziva to get it for you in the first place."

"He is a liar, Abby."

"I know," she giggled.

"So are you planning on gracing us with your presence sometime today, _Zee-Vah_?"

"Yes, Tony. I am on my way."

_Click._

A few minutes later, Ziva strolled into the bullpen, dropping two plastic bags on Tony's desk.

"Tony, what is a Box o' Joe?"

He read the logo on the bag and smiled. "You went to Dunkin' Donuts? That's farther than the corner."

"By one block. And it is nice out today."

"It's freezing," he countered.

"Okay, fine. Abby and I took a walk." Ziva opened the bag and pulled out a rather large box of coffee. "When I started to order the fourth cup, the man behind the counter told me it might be better to buy it this way." She looked at Tony for clarification.

"Number one," he said emphatically, "Joe is just another word for coffee." Ziva looked unimpressed. "And I have no idea who decided to put coffee in a box, but it's kind of brilliant."

"The next Einstein," she said pulling a drink tray out of the second bag. It held the tea he'd bought for her earlier that morning, creamers and sugar, and a cup filled with ice. "I had forgotten that Abby was kind enough to put it in her fridge after we were called out to the scene this morning."

Simon came to peer over her shoulder. "Refrigerated tea?" he asked. "That's gross."

"There is no milk in it," she huffed, stalking back to her desk. "It's green tea."

"And what do you think iced tea is?" Tony defended, twirling a red coffee stirrer in his mouth.

"Hey! Whose side are you on?" Simon asked, loading a cup with creamers.

"Hers," he leaned in closer to Simon, dropping to a near whisper. "_Always_ _hers_."

Ziva peered up momentarily, giving Tony just enough time to see her half smile.

* * *

Ziva's Box o' Joe was gone in under an hour, but it wasn't until nine o'clock that Gibbs took mercy on his agents.

"Go home," he said gruffly, walking out through the back of the bullpen. "Monday morning, fresh eyes, eight sharp."

"So, where should we go?" Simon asked.

"Who is we, and where are you going?" Ordinarily, Ziva would have picked up on the not so subtle dinner invitation, but she was tired, and preoccupied looking for her coat, which had mysteriously gone missing. "Have you seen my…-"

"Coat!" Abby finished, bouncing in, Ziva's jacket in hand. Are you ready to go?" Her eye's drifted toward the attractive stranger. "Oh!" she exclaimed, hand outstretched. "I'm Abby. _And you_ must be Simon."

"The pleasure is all mine," he smiled, taking in the young, energetic looking goth, schoolgirl attire and all. "And where might I ask are you going?"

"Out," Ziva answered loudly.

"Just drinks," Abby added, her eyes still glued to Simon.

"I was planning on stealing Ziva tonight."

_"I bet you were." _

"What?"

"Huh? Nothing." Tony stood with a smile, just waiting it out. Waiting him out.

"Come on," Ziva said, trying to pull Abby from her daze. "We should go."

"Why? It's not like we have reservations," she shrugged. "We have time."

"How about _room_? Is there room for one more?"

"Not in Ziva's car," Tony laughed. "It's so tiny I'm surprised she even fits in there."

"Sure there's room! Timmy? Tony?" she called. "How bout it? Up for a drink?"

"Only if there's food involved," McGee yawned, joining them around Ziva's desk.

"Come on, Probie," Tony taunted. "Gotta watch that new figure of yours. Get yourself a girl!"

"I'm sure he does just fine on his own, don't you?" Simon asked with a friendly pat on the shoulder.

"I do alright." McGee couldn't help but turn a light shade of red.

"Great! You can ride with me." Abby took Simon's shoulder in one of her own leading towards the elevator, McGee following suit. "We never meet any of Ziva's friends. I can't wait to hear how you two met! Tell me everything."

For the first time since this morning, Tony and Ziva were alone.

"You are _not_ going to make me go _alone_ are you?" she asked, her voice soft. "You know what they say, misery loves friends, yes?"

He smiled down at her. "Misery loves company, Ziva."

"Even bad company?"

"Can't get much worse than miserable, right?" he quipped.

"Depends on if you are leaving me alone." Tony watched her fold her arms, waiting for his response.

_Did she look hopeful_?

One thing he knew, Tony sure as hell wasn't about to let her double date with Abby and McGee, even if it was at some hole-in-the-wall bar.

"I'm ready when you are," he said, grabbing his phone and badge. "Come on, Misery. Looks like I'm your company." He reveled in her laughter. He hadn't heard it all day. "Oh, I just remembered," he said tapping her on the shoulder incessantly as they entered the elevator. "You'll never guess what I said about McGee while you were out buying the world's largest box of coffee…"


	5. sucker punch

Okay, so maybe Ziva had a point; if Tony sent McGee to India, Abby would kill him, painfully.

Tony tried, with great effort, to keep Ziva's car in sight as he followed her to the bar; no such luck. He lost her somewhere between the eighteen wheeler she cut off, and a fairly sharp left turn he was convinced wasn't even legal. When Tony finally found parking and sprinted across the street towards O'Shea's Bar and Grille, he found her relaxed against her Mini-Cooper, waiting. Waiting for him.

"It took you long enough," she said, tapping her wrist in mock irritation.

"Yeah, I've been meaning to tell you," he breathed, giving her an unabashed once over, "yellow lights mean slow down. Not speed up and hope for the best." He pocketed his keys and gestured towards his left. "You waitin' for something?"

"Only the slowest driver in the world. You drive like my Aunt Nettie."

Ziva pushed herself off the car, and they fell into an easy stride down the street.

"Yeah, and she's what, like eighty?"

"Eighty-five," she corrected, bumping into him playfully. "It would be far more sensible to walk wherever it is you need to be than to let her drive. You would still get there in half the time." Ziva was lively, using her hands and making faces as she spoke, _smiling_, eyes set only on him; Tony loved every second of it. But she lost sight of her surroundings, and Tony found himself clutching at her coat, pulling her towards him, narrowly avoiding a crosswalk pole.

Tony could feel eyes on them, their embrace easily confused with a rather bold public display of affection. Ziva looked up at him, utterly confused. He reluctantly removed his hand from her waist, but he refused to pull back; it wasn't like she was running away, and she smelled _really_ nice. "Gotta watch where you're walking, Ninja," he pointed behind her. "And _that_'s exactly what I was saying."

"That you drive like an elderly person to avoid traffic poles?"

He shook his head. "That you need to be more careful. Your Aunt Nettie may be slow, but she's eighty-five and still kicking."

"She hates violence, Tony. She and Eli were complete oppos…-" Tony placed two fingers to her lips, and he watched as she momentarily went cross-eyed, her auburn orbs fixed on his fingers.

"I _mean _you need to be more careful. The way you drive, and apparently the way you walk," he smirked, "you're not gonna make it to forty."

"Hey!" she yelled, finally smacking his hand back. "Forty? I am barely out of my twenties, Tony! And you are already pushing me 'over the ."

And there it was; that damn age thing again.

_That's right_, he thought. _She just turned thirty in November._

Was he really '_a bit'_ too old for her? Of course he'd been with women younger than Ziva, but it had never amounted to anything long-term; nothing ever important enough to give age any relevance.

"Alright," he sighed. "Let's go. You're turning into a Fudgsicle." She crinkled her nose questioningly. "_Oh my God, _never mind. Come on."

* * *

It was a Friday night, and the bar was crowded; it took a few minutes, but Ziva finally located the others, Abby's voice resonating above the throng of people. "Look," she said, pulling Tony along. "I found them."

They'd gotten a booth; McGee on one side, and Abby and Simon on the other. She was sitting Indian style, legs crossed, listening intently to Simon, clearly smitten; Tim not so much.

"Havin' fun, Probie?" Tony asked, laughing at his expression.

"Where have you guys been?"

But before Tony could answer, Ziva slid between him and the table, barely affording him enough room to breathe, let alone think straight; for someone who supposedly didn't wear perfume, she smelled incredibly, _sweet_. "Coat," she requested, and he willingly obliged; _God forbid she let him be a gentleman_.

"We already ordered some stuff," Abby said, dragging Simon further into the corner with her, making room for one more. "We got potatoes skins, fries, mozzarella sticks, and some wings. Just a big platter of fried food really. Did I miss anything?"

Ziva hesitated briefly, her gaze flitting around the table. "Drinks?" she asked, stalling. "Have you ordered drinks?" She moved to sling both coats over her left arm, but Tony caught them from behind, tossing them in the free space next to Simon. He watched her crawl into the booth next to Tim, with a satisfied smile.

"Yeah," McGee finally answered. "I ordered a pitcher."

Within minutes, their food had been delivered, drinks had been poured, and Tony wanted nothing more than to leave; but he would stay, as long as Ziva did.

"You're not drinking?" Simon asked, referring to the Diet Coke she'd requested when the waitress returned with a new pitcher. "I thought the whole point was that the two of you were going drinking?"

"Ziva here is more of a '_hard liquor_' girl; tequila shots and Long Island Iced Teas," Abby amended. "And those fruity drinks."

_Not exactly hard liquor, but whatever._

"Oh come on," he pleaded, pressing an empty glass across the table. "_I love drunk Ziva_. She's just so much more fun than regular Ziva."

"Maybe later," Ziva smiled. "You need to order those drinks at the bar," she signaled towards the other end of the establishment. "And I am quite comfortable where I am." She poked McGee, who was being too quiet, seemingly sleeping with his eyes open.

Tony laughed when he jumped at her touch, looking like a deer in headlights. "_Ninja_," he reminded Tim, not overlooking it was the second time he'd used that reference within the past hour.

_His ninja._

"Ziva," Abby laughed, between sucking salt off of her fingers, "Simon was telling me you two were partners."

_Partners?_

Simon tilted his head towards her. "This one," he smiled. "She's like the Spanish Inquisition. I dunno' know how she does it."

"How long were you two partners?" Tony asked, interest peaked.

"About a year," Simon answered coolly. "I was her _first_."

The insinuation was lost on no one; Abby's eyes widened, a mischievous smile immerging, but when she saw Tony's hard scowl, she was suddenly extremely interested in her food. Ziva's head shot up to meet Simon's gaze. "It was ten months," she corrected firmly.

"That's why I said, '_about a year_'."

It was so slight, the action was almost lost on Tony, but when Ziva relaxed back into the plush bench beside him, she pulled away, ever so slightly. When they'd first arrived and he'd taken his place next to her, he'd thrown his right arm over bench-top, lightly grazing her shoulders, in a relatively successful pursuit of comfort; for the better part of the past half-hour, she had been sitting close enough that he could feel the warmth of her petite frame, tucked soundly beneath his arm, but now the slight chill in her absence was painfully evident.

"It was actually my first mission for Mossad," Ziva clarified, throwing a smile in Simon's direction. "It was _supposed_ to be a solo mission, but the Federal Police claimed their jurisdiction. And so I was assigned my first partner."

"Begrudgingly," he added, tossing fries onto her plate. "You're too skinny," he said casually. Turning back to Abby, he continued, "She tried _so_ hard to hate me." Ziva smiled, nodding her head in agreement. "She was just mad that she had to share. Wanted so badly to prove to _Daddy_ that she could do it all on her own."

Ziva dropped her gaze, a masked smile in place; Tony tried catching her eye, but wound up sharing a look with Tim; a knowing look, a silent agreement that one of them should change the subject.

It was too late.

"Speaking of," Simon pushed, "how is _daddy dearest_?" Judging by the sarcastic tone, Simon was not a big fan of the late Director.

And apparently, while still in search of Ilan Bodner, Israel and Mossad were doing a good job of containing the news of Director David's murder.

"Eli is fine, Simon."

"_Eli?_" he repeated, a puzzled look stretching over his features. "Since when do you call him Eli?"

"I have always called him Eli."

_Lies._

"Nice try," Simon laughed. "Come on, spill. You know you can't hide stuff from me." He wagged his finger at her mockingly, and it took all of Ziva's will-power not to break it.

Tony watched as her knuckles turned white under the table and he nudged her with his knee. She tickled his ankle

"Actually," she said loudly, turning towards Tony, motioning him to get up, "as much as I hate to admit it, you are right. I am getting a drink."

"See!" he elbowed Abby kiddingly. "Why don't people listen to me?"

"I listen!" she said cheerfully. "Hey!" she yelled before Ziva was out of earshot. "Whatever you're having, I'll have one!" Once Ziva was out of sight, Abby turned to Simon, a serious look on her face; well, as serious as Abby can look in pigtails. "Okay, she's gone," she announced giddily. "I just have to know….-"

"Abby," McGee interrupted. "He's not getting on a plane tonight." He ignored her warning glance, "Maybe you could call it a night now? Let him recoup over the weekend?"

"Timmy…," she whined. "I was just…."

He put his hand up. "I'm not saying you can _never_ ask him another question, just give it a rest for a while. Okay?"

Tony was a bit shocked at Abby's lack of resistance. He knew _McGee_ usually gave in when it came to Abby, much like Gibbs, but it was suddenly clear he also held insight into her persona that Tony most certainly did not. And he was getting through to her without being too obvious about his intentions; normally he'd let her have her fun, prodding the new guy, but there was a reason Ziva had excused herself, and it had nothing to do with drinks.

"Okay, fine. _Fun sucker_," she accused, bringing out those puppy dog eyes that turned grown men onto mush. "Just one more."

Tony would have sympathized with McGee if it hadn't been so funny. Tension and drama be damned, at least he had comic relief. "Let it go, Probie," he laughed. "You'll never win."

"Alright, Babe," Simon said, charming Abby into a deep blush. "One more."

She brought her hands to her face, and got that look; that look little kids get before they do something they _know_ is wrong. It'd been eating at her, though; she just had to know. Her voice dropped to a near whisper, and Tony could barely hear her, "Do the words '_weapons carrier'_ mean anything to you?"

Simon's mouth fell open, dumbfounded.

_What the hell is she going on about?_

"Probie? What's she saying?"

"You two mind your business!" Abby piped up, her hands clasping Simon's arm. "You're speechless," she cooed. "That's so cute. Don't say anything else," she winked. "I got it."

_Got what?_

* * *

When Ziva returned with the drinks, Tony got a little self-confidence boost as she brushed against him sliding back into her seat.

As she bent over the table to hand Abby her Blue Lagoon, _a girly drink if there ever was one_, Tony saw it, and he cringed outwardly; thankful no one was sitting across from him to see it. She hadn't taken her hair down from her ponytail since they'd returned from the crime scene, and her hair fell over her right shoulder, exposing a scar; it held a pinkish tinge, running across her hair line. It was no more than an inch or two in length, but Tony knew it was no paper-cut. Luckily, even after Ziva dropped back down next to him, reclaiming her spot nestled by Tony's side, she was still trying to explain to Abby how even though a Blue Lagoon was blue, it tasted like lemonade; she couldn't see the look on Tony's face, the pained smile he wore, pretending to listen to her. _Because he couldn't listen_; he was too busy using every ounce of self-control he had, not to drag her back to the comfort of his apartment, searching every inch of her skin for more imperfections. _Any_ more unwelcome stains on her soft, olive skin, old or new, it didn't matter. If she was hurt, he wanted to know.

He wondered how long she'd had it. _Was it from her time in Somalia_? Or had it always been there, and he'd just never noticed.

_No. He would have noticed,_ Tony assured himself.

_How many more were there? What else had he missed?_

It could've been a minute, or an hour; he had no idea. He'd heard giggles coming from Abby's corner, even a few from Ziva. He noticed that she'd settled down against him further, her head falling against his arm each time she stretched, or laughed, or loosened up a bit, her head lolling back in contentment.

A passerby might have even mistaken it for cuddling.

Eventually Ziva nudged him, and Tony realized she wanted out; the night was over. She tugged at his shirt, "Tony," she whispered. "Time to go." When he didn't answer right away, she bowed her head, softly laughing. "How much have you had to drink?"

_Not enough._

"What?" he asked, eliciting confused looks from both her and McGee. "No, I'm fine."

* * *

Simon hailed a cab, refusing Ziva's offer of a ride home, claiming, hangover or not, he wanted to live to see tomorrow morning. Ziva and Abby were both parked fairly close to the entrance, leaving Tony and McGee trudging across the street to their respective cars.

"He seemed fun, huh?" McGee had enjoyed himself.

_How nice for Probie._

"Yeah, Abby seemed to like him enough."

"Well yeah! She _loves_ prying," McGee laughed. "More than you."

"Ha, ha. Look who's got jokes." And then he remembered, "What was she saying anyways? When Ziva was at the bar buying liquid candy?"

_A Blue Lagoon. Only Ziva._

"Oh, come on. She was just being Abby," he said, restlessly toying with his keys. "Didn't mean anything by it. She was just messing with him."

"About what?"

"You remember….that time in the garage when we were picking apart that cab?"

"No."

"Whatever. We were all talking about _first times_, and Ziva said her first time was in a weapons carrier."

"Of course it was," Tony laughed, not fully understanding.

"I'm sure he was just teasing Abby," McGee added quickly. "Getting her going. They were having fun."

It took a few minutes to sink in, but when Tony put the pieces together, it hit him. Hard.

_Ziva._

_Ziva in a weapons carrier._

_Ziva in a weapons carrier with Simon?_

_Damn._


	6. feel good inc

**A/N: wow, talk about long time no update... You know it's bad when the author has to go back and re-read her own story, just to make sure she remembered it correctly. I kind of got side-tracked with loss of my muse and the other T/Z stories in the works, but I promise I'm back in full force, with summer and all. For those of you who are getting this email because you've recently subbed to my penname and have yet to read this story, I suggest you go back and start from the beginning... ;P**

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(tony/ziva) Forever Young

Chapter 6

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_Ziva. _

_Ziva in a weapons carrier. _

_Ziva in a weapons carrier with Simon?_

_Damn.

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_

The gym; _why wasn't she at the gym_?

Tony distinctly remembered her saying that Sunday night at her gym was 'as dead as the town from _The Mist'_; so naturally, after making her sit through the superior, original adaptation of the film, he surmised that if he ever needed to find Ziva on a Sunday night, she'd be at the gym. _Because Ziva didn't like to wait_, especially when everyone else evidently used the treadmills incorrectly; and assuming the population of D.C. hadn't suddenly contracted a collective bout of brain damage, by '_incorrectly,_' she meant they just weren't running fast enough.

He hadn't tried calling, afraid she wouldn't answer, so without channeling a crazed stalker and GPS tracking the hell out of her phone, he had to go a-knocking on _La Casa de David_. As far as Plan Bs go, he felt it was pretty solid, unless she wasn't home, or worse, had company in the form of an Australian Federal Agent with uncertain intentions.

Tony forwent the task of being buzzed into her building, shamelessly using his charms on an elderly woman with one too many shopping bags, and made his way to the fourth floor, apartment 414.

He knocked a few times and waited. Hearing something from behind the door, a clanging sound like metal on metal, he eased closer to listen; but Ziva was small and made little noise as she walked barefoot, sending him stumbling back in surprise when the door opened abruptly.

"Hi," he said cheerfully, trying to desperately cover his tracks_; because_ _he was Anthony DiNozzo, not out of breath_. And the way she was leaning against the door jam, lips pouted in question, _so not helping with the whole catching his breath thing_.

"Hello."

Hey, he'd seen those boxers before; she'd worn them in Paris, drawstring pulled tight, and rolled down a few times so that they actually fit her slim waist. And there was something about the fact they were actual men's boxers, and not those '_made for women short-short boxers'_, that made them all the more intriguing; like maybe one morning he could wake up to find her wearing one of his button downs, or better yet, anything that said Ohio State on it.

_You know, in one of those Alternate Universes that Probie never shut up about, where he actually woke up with Ziva._

The top was new though, over-sized and made from, what looked like, really thin sweatshirt material; but Tony knew from relationships past that he wasn't supposed to call it a T- shirt. It was one of those Pilates shirts, a _tunic_, whatever the hell that was; although he was pretty sure_ tunic_ was just another word for _shirt_, with a fancy spin so they could charge fifty bucks for something that cost fifty cents to make. As his gaze descended, his eyes caught the Ace Bandage wrapped tightly around her knee.

She cleared her throat, aptly reclaiming his interest. "Can I help you? Or were you just jogging by?" she laughed, referring to his old college basketball shorts.

"Ah, no. I told you, working on my six-pack," he patted his stomach, slightly discouraged by the lack of said muscles. "I went to your gym, thought you'd let me use your Visitors Pass or something."

"Because you are too cheap to buy your own?"

"See," he said victoriously, "you get me." He took notice of the way she was hiding her right hand, and the bandage that covered it; not like the one on her knee, an actual medical bandage that covered cuts; and there were little red tinges that stained the white cloth. "What'd you do?" he asked. She'd wrapped it up into a huge bubble, and if Ziva was hiding it from him, it was probably bad.

But in true _David_ fashion, she waived him off. "I was trying to cook," she explained, finally leading him out of the hallway and into her apartment. "But my '_little animal' _is broken."

He tilted his head, confused. "As usual, I have no idea what you're saying."

She rolled her eyes. "That thing, in the sink," she pointed towards her kitchen, "I think there is something stuck in there, and I was trying to get it out."

His eyes widened as he took in the scene. The cabinet doors beneath her sink were open, exposing the motor of her sink's disposal system, and there were two flashlights and various kitchen knives strewn across the counter. "You put your hand down the garbage disposal?" he asked heatedly. "Jesus Christ, Ziva. Are you crazy? You'll need a tetanus shot or something."

He tried to take hold of her injured hand, but she brushed past him, displeased by his condescending tone. "I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself. I would have fixed it by now, if I had not been interrupted."

"Yeah, if you didn't cut your hand off first." Tony ripped his sweatshirt off, and shadowed her into the spacious kitchen. "It's called _a pig_ by the way, not a _little animal_." It would've been funny if she wasn't already picking up one of the flashlights to repeat her ill-fated attempts at disposal repair.

"Why is it called _a pig_?"

"Probably because they eat anything they can get their grubby little hands on," he admitted, inspecting the knives on the counter. A few of them had fresh nicks on the blades, undoubtedly from jamming them down the disposal.

"And you wonder why I am not supposed to eat pork," she grimaced.

"You eat bacon."

"I said I was not supposed to. Not that I didn't."

"Okay," he managed, hip-bumping her away from the sink. "Let me look at it."

Ziva huffed impatiently, but let him have his way; not because she wanted to, but because two hours of cutting up her right hand had definitely been in vain, whether or not she liked to admit it. "Fine."

"So," he asked, hunched over the sink, "did you actually see what's in here, or were you just attacking aimlessly."

"I was not attacking anything," she lied. "I was just looking." She was leaning in next to him, determined to find the problem before Tony. He straightened his back and stared at her, calling her out on her rather obvious lie. "Fine," she said again. "Perhaps I tried force. And it was starting to work, see?" She shooed his hands away from her sink, and flipped the switch to turn the disposal on.

"Stop it," he demanded, bending down to shut it off. "You'll burn out the motor."

"And since when do you know so much about this stuff?" she asked doubtfully.

"Maybe since I found the bread tie stuck behind the blade here," he directed the flashlight on the small culprit that had wielded her sink unusable, and she bent before him, resolute to prove him wrong. Her ponytail flipped again, and he was painfully reminded of his discovery two nights prior. The pinkish tinge of the scar called out to him, and it contrasted heartbreakingly with her caramel skin. He wanted to run his finger along it, ask if it still hurt, but he thought better of it. "Do you have ice?" he asked.

She turned around, nearly whipping him with her hair. "Of course I have ice," she grimaced. "_Who doesn't_ have ice?"

He shrugged. "Me. I always run out."

Ziva rolled her eyes and moved to crack a tray of ice. Tony had never been so relieved at her disconnect, and he didn't like the feeling.

"Why do you want ice?" she asked.

"_Because_, cold supposedly makes plastic contract, unless my high school Chem teacher lied. And if that doesn't work, I'll have to stab away at it, hopefully with better results than you." He looked back down at her hand as she handed him the tray, "You're bleeding through your bandage." He dumped the ice down the sink, and insisted they had plenty of time for her to prove that her right hand wasn't in danger of contracting gangrene. "C'mon," he said. "At least let me re-wrap it the right way. You're using your left hand, so it's not really your fault you're hopeless."

Ziva hastily un-wrapped her hand and gestured towards the _first aid kit_ on the kitchen table. There were tiny little cuts along her knuckles, and a fairly large gash in the fleshy part of her palm. When he tugged at the skin, it started to bleed again. "You need stitches," he said firmly.

She sighed. "Just bandage it, and if it needs stitches tomorrow, I will ask Ducky." He gave her a weak scowl, but eventually applied the Neosporin and neatly secured the dressing with small metal clips.

"Alright, just don't get it wet, and it'll last." He turned back to the sink, leaving her to clear the table, and picking out the remaining ice, he realized his idea hadn't worked as well as he'd hoped. "I knew _Burl the Girl_ was a liar," he mumbled.

He spent the next twenty minutes hacking at the stubborn bread tie until it finally cracked and fell into small shards behind the blade. Ziva handed him the drain stopper and ran the water, waiting for Tony's moment of truth.

"That's right," he yelled over the sound of her newly functional disposal, "I'm handy like that." He gave her a mischievous wink, and stood tall, presenting her with a _DiNozzo approved_ sink.

"Thank you," she said begrudgingly. "I suppose I should feed you now, yes?" she teased. "Is that proper compensation?"

"It's agreeable."

"Fine. What should I be making you? And do not insult my abilities by saying '_pasta'_."

"Whatever," he shrugged. "You're all crippled, so whichever's easiest." He turned his head quickly to avoid her glare.

"Fine, then. Maybe while I cook you can tell me why you are really here." He looked back at her, ready to deny her accusation, but she'd said it so casually and was already rummaging through her refrigerator; he was rendered speechless. "You want to know about Simon," she accused.

_Yes. _

_Badly.

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**A/N:**_** Okay, so it's kind of short...but it's kind of a "hey, remember me" chapter...and I admit it's all my fault, but I'll try to make it up to you guys in later chapters...I have a whole different ending than I originally planned, and I like this story so much better now, so you can expect more frequent updates ;)**

**-Katie**

**Reviews would be lovely.**


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